


The Insult

by kate_the_reader



Series: Godfrey [4]
Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Slurs, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 21:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14481807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Will James heed Godfrey and do as he asks?Set after "The gown", they are still in New York





	The Insult

**Author's Note:**

> Written for shesharpensherknife on Tumblr, who gave me the prompt: "Please don't do this" for a drabble. Great prompt! (Even though it didn't actually end up in the fic, word for word.) It got rather more complex and intense.

James has been staring at the paper in his hand for long minutes, unseeing. He stands up now, the chair scraping loudly across the floor as he flings himself out of it. He stops in front of the small daytime fire, one hand gripping the mantel, the other still holding the paper.

“Will you tell me what it says? James?”

“Fuck them! What do I care? I do not. I have no need to ingratiate myself here. We will soon be gone.”

He still has not said what the letter, delivered to William’s door but addressed to him, contains. William goes to stand next to him, reaches a tentative hand out for the letter. “May I see?”

James does not look up from the fire, but he hands the paper to William.

There are only two words on it: “ _Filthy sodomite._ ”

William has been called “filthy” before. “Filthy molly!” spat at him, “Filthy sodomite.” On the ship, James had dealt with it in his direct, brutal manner. A backhanded blow to George Brown’s face. 

James has been called many things: dangerous, mad, a murderer, a traitor. Never yet a sodomite.

The words feel like a slap, even if they are not addressed to him. He reaches for James again. He flinches away from William’s hand, but William persists. He is not so easily deterred now. He runs his hand down James’ rough face. James looks up at him, his eyes still full of hot fire. “Fuck them, Billy! I cannot let it stand!”

“You said you did not care. It is unsigned, James. It is not a challenge. Ignore it.”

“I could easily discover the author. It must be someone at this inn. I only need to ask the boy who asked that it be delivered.”

“And then what? Challenge a coward who has not even the courage to sign an insult? All you would do is confirm to the world that the word stings with truth.”

“I could kill him.” 

Now it is William’s turn to flinch. He has himself felt James’ barely repressed violence. He knows James has killed men; has accepted challenges and emerged the victor. But he could not bear to witness such futility. Cannot bear to imagine what would happen to him if James were not the victor.

“No!”

“A man cannot let such an insult stand!”

“And I am not a man, who would turn away from such a petty, cowardly insult?”

“It is not you who has been insulted.”

“Oh come, James! I am as much insulted as you. After all, there are two of us in this …” He dare not name what there is between them; James has not.

James’ eyes lose some of their bitter fire. “Yes,” he says. “Two.” He reaches for William’s hand, holds it against his face again.

They stand like that in a silence broken only by the sighing of the fire and the sounds of the street outside the window as the day begins to grow dark.

At last James shakes himself, shakes off William’s hand, picks up the poker to stir the fire. It is late. They have missed the dinner hour. He would not have wanted to dine here, wondering which of their fellow guests had penned the insulting note.

“Would you walk to the dock? Perhaps Atticus and Bill will feed us.” He isn’t sure how this will be received, but James almost smiles. 

“Yes, fuck! some air, the company of honest men. Men who would insult you to your face if they were going to.”

They have retreated into their own world here in New York. James has been back to the ship, but William has not. 

James walks as he always does, head, in his absurd hat, thrust forward, chin down. William has to stretch his steps to keep pace, until James shortens his stride a little. He glances at William sidelong.

“They never did? Insult you?”

“On the voyage? Never. They were decent. Kind, even, in their way.”

James grunts. “They wouldn’t have dared.”

“No, that was not it. George Brown dared.”

“Until I showed him different!”

“Yes. You defended my honour.” William is not quite sure why he says this. James despises coquettishness. 

“And yet you want me not to defend my own.”

“No, James. What good would it do? Rise to the unsigned taunt of you know not who? You said yourself, what do you care? We will soon be gone.”

“Will we, though? How are we to reach Nootka? That is a far greater undertaking than reaching New York.”

“I know that. I assumed … I had not thought how. I never expected to escape London. Let alone travel to the other side of the world.” Their steps have slowed. James seems reluctant to arrive at the ship.

“I am sorry, Billy. I tore you from your home.”

“James! We have spoken of this. You know I am not sorry. I told you so, weeks ago.”

Was it really weeks? This time on shore has seemed even less marked into days passing than the time on board ship. He knows this timelessness cannot last. It has indeed been shattered by the crude anonymous insult.

They have arrived at the dock. Good Hope is moored at the far end, having had no cargo to discharge.

“There she is!” says James, striding forth.

The ship is quiet, light spilling through the windows of the great stern cabin. Inside, Atticus can be seen bent over the table, writing.

“His book of tales,” says James, amused. He leans over and raps on the window. Atticus looks up, peering through spectacles. “It’s me, Atticus, let us aboard, you ruffian!”

“Delaney!” Atticus turns from the window and leaves the cabin, emerging through the hatchway on deck. “William?” he says, a slight frown creasing his brow. William has almost forgotten that his and James’ relationship is hidden from even those who know them. Atticus must have half-known during the voyage; perhaps he assumed they would part when on land.

“Good evening,” he says, awkward, as if Atticus is a stranger; the bonds of shipboard camaraderie dissolved by a short while apart. He did not expect anything else, of course.

“We have come to eat dinner, if we may. And a drink, if you please.”

“Oh, we are to entertain you now?” says Atticus, but he is smiling. “Well, come aboard.” 

James goes first, and turns to offer William his hand, a courtly gesture that he both welcomes and hates. He puts his hand in James’. Atticus has turned away, shouting for Bill. James’ eyes convey a message: “Say nothing”. 

“Of course,” William murmurs, resenting that James even asks; his lips tighten. James nods and drops his hand.

Bill has come on deck. “Dinner is it?” he says. “We’re an eating house now?”

“The cook is still aboard, and I left money, so I have come to eat,” says James.

During the voyage, Atticus and Bill and the rest deferred to James as the ‘captain’, but they evidently do not regard him as their superior now. William follows James to the cabin, scene of so much between them. A journal lies on the table, but the bed looks unslept in. James opens the book and reads, nods. He looks up as Atticus enters.

“I’m only using the table. The light’s better.”

“I don’t care,” says James. Atticus steps over and shuts the book, slips it into his pocket.

“Cook says he’ll heat the leftovers. For your dinner.” 

James goes to the cupboard where he kept the brandy during the voyage. “Any left?” he says. “Or have you drunk it all?”

“We prefer ale,” says Bill, coming in.

James reaches into the cupboard for the bottle and glasses, pours two measures and brings them to where William is standing. “Godders,” he says.

“Thank you,” says William, accepting a glass and drinking, glad for the clean burn of the spirit. James’ brandy is better than that at the inn. He is aware of Bill’s eyes on them, but there is no censure in them.

“Where is Robert?” says James. They have been caught up in their own affairs; William has barely thought of the boy. 

“Mrs Delaney, or I should say, Miss Bow, took him away. He was none too happy, believe me.” Atticus laughs. “He prefers to lark about than sit at his books, and who can blame him?”

“No doubt,” says James, drily. “I will visit her tomorrow.”

The cook enters, then, with a steaming tureen. “Mr Delaney, sir,” he says. “Mr Godfrey. It ain’t much. Best I could do, with no notice.” His scowl is all for show.

“Thank you,” says James, pulling back a chair and gesturing for William to sit. He is being rather reckless, William’s stomach clenches as he complies.

The stew is the familiar shipboard fare, only made with fresh rather than salt meat; not very different from what they eat at the inn. He listens to James and Atticus talk of small matters — the ship, the crew — but says nothing himself. Some of the Americans have asked to leave, those of them whose homes are nearby.

“Do you need a full crew?” says Atticus.

“Perhaps,” says James.

“You mean to sail to the far side of the world?” says Atticus. “All the way round?”

“Nootka is on the far side,” says James, neutrally.

“And if we do not wish that?” says Atticus, glancing at Bill.

“I’ll get someone else.” James’ preferred method of negotiation: never give an inch, force the other man to bend.

“I’ve been round, in those terrible seas, that awful cold. Have you?” says Atticus.

“You know I haven’t.”

“Well then.”

Bill, who has said nothing, hides a wry smile in his ale mug.

James doesn’t pursue the point, and the talk turns to minor repairs the ship needs, expenses he has to cover. William files it all away, ready to become a secretary again, should James need it. Eager to, truth be told. Better than having no job — other than pleasing James.

The bottle is empty. James drains his glass and stands up, staggering slightly as the ship heaves on the small swell of the harbour; he catches himself with a hand on William’s arm. The others do not react. “Good night,” says James. “Come, Godders.”

William has drunk moderately, even so, he is glad of the chill night air after the close cabin. James says nothing as they walk back along the quay and up to the inn. William is used to his silences, his moods. As they near the inn, he says: “You will go to your room?” He does not want James to, but it would be wise. It is late, but not late enough for the building to be asleep; raucous laughter spills from the taproom. James grunts, so William must wait to discover what he has decided. 

As they climb the stairs, the innkeeper comes out of the bar; William feels his eyes on them, but he ignores the unease as he follows James. The landing is dark, James stands close to him as he unlocks the door, reaches out and stops his hand on the knob, presses even closer. “Good night, Billy,” he says, intimately quiet, his warm breath at his ear. William nods. “Good night,” he says, stepping through the door and turning to look at James.

“Do not lock it,” says James, quiet, as he turns to climb the next flight to his own room. William’s heart pounds as he undresses for bed, as he lies between the cold sheets in a bed that is now too big. But he wakes from sleep when James slips under the covers.

“Fuck them,” he says, pulling William against his hard chest, spreading his hand upon his hip, hitching own hips closer. 

William wakes when James gets out of bed before dawn, roused by some internal clock. He turns and watches James as he leaves the room, saying nothing, but pausing in the dark doorway. William cannot see his expression. 

William is dressing when James returns. He watches from the armchair before the cold fire. Neither of them says anything, but William turns from the glass to face him. James smiles, fleetingly.

When he is ready, he walks across the room and stands before James, looking down at him to say what he lay awake thinking. “James, let us find another inn. Or return to the ship. We cannot stay here, wondering when we will be insulted again.”

“Run away? Why should we run?”

“It is not a battle worth fighting. It is not a battle we can win. I know this. I have always known this.”

“I’m not like you. I will not!”

“You are not like me. No. You are not. I have never presumed to think so, James.” 

“Billy.” James’ voice is placating and he reaches for William’s hand, but William steps back. 

“No! What good would it do you, to fight over this? What good would it do me?”

“I still have to conclude my business here. Meet the president, for God’s sake!”

“And you will save your reputation by rising to a challenge that is not even a challenge honestly given? An anonymous insult in a harbourside inn?”

“I fought Geary.”

“And this is nothing like that! Was not that challenge issued in public?”

James slumps in the chair. “It was. The fool.”

William is tired of having the same argument. “I am hungry,” he says. “I want coffee. I am going out.”

“Go!” says James. “I will call upon Lorna. See what she has done to my— to Robert.”

To be out in the streets without James feels odd — how quickly he has come to depend upon his presence. His protection? In London, he walked about the streets alone, unremarked, unmolested, from the house to the Company’s offices. He sat at his writing desk noticed only when Sir Stuart told him to stop recording. And noticed by James, the start of it all. He had learned not to hear insults. Men like him were not meant to react to the slurs that could be thrown at them, even by those who visited the house. But for James, this insult is something new, and he, though inured to insult of a different kind, is not inured to this.

He steps into the coffeehouse, full of pipe smoke and men’s talk, and calls for coffee and a pipe. He sits facing the room, to watch the crowd, so he sees him come in, a man he has seen at the inn. A thin, drab man, ink-stained and threadbare. A clerk of some kind, much like William in his former life. He does not drop his eyes as the man scans the room for a table, so he sees him betray his recognition. The only unoccupied table is by William’s, the man sneers and turns to leave.

William drinks his coffee and smokes the pipe, the tobacco making his head swim, and when he is done, he does not linger, but walks back to the inn. He goes straight to his room and begins to pack up his things. The fine shirt has been laundered and he lays it on top. Then he sits by the window to wait. 

At last, he sees him. James is walking with his head down, coat flapping open behind him. William is not surprised by the way his breath catches at the sight. James does not look up — why would he? — but soon enough William’s door opens and James is in the room. William turns from the window. James doesn’t speak, but he sees William’s packed bag and nods. 

William crosses the room, holds out his hand for James’ hat. James takes it off, but not his coat. 

“I have taken rooms at another inn,” he says. “I did what you asked.”

“Thank you, James.” 

James smiles, briefly. He turns back to the door. “I will fetch down my things and we can be gone.”


End file.
